Hey folks! We’re back at it! For this issue of Author’s Spotlight, I’d like to introduce veteran author Ken Gordon!
1. What is your favorite genre to write and why?
Philosophers Dante and Oscar Wilde had opposing points when it came to art. Dante felt art imitates life, while Oscar Wilde felt life imitates art far more than art imitates life. I tend to subscribe to the Dante view of art, as, for me, art certainly imitates life. As a result, my favorite genre is non-fiction. I have written books in the fiction, non-fiction, and children’s categories and have found writing in non-fiction gives me the greatest release and satisfaction. In this genre, I am able to step out of who I am, view life and its challenges, and provide perspectives and answers, which are otherwise much more difficult to provide, while living life on the fly.
2. What influenced you to become a writer?
I have always loved to write, however, I understood that loving to write does not make one a writer. What influenced me to take my passion for writing beyond a passive love and into an active endeavor was a search for topics relevant to my circumstance. At one point, I suffered through a very difficult situation and sought books to help manage the state in which I found myself. Unfortunately, I found no books relevant, or specific, to my circumstance. Hence, I found Plato’s saying, “Necessity is the mother of invention”, a truism. I found myself in need and there existed a gap. Out of necessity, I filled the gap with my own musings and experiences. I found catharsis by stepping into that gap. That experience made me believe there are others who could benefit from my journey and this realization was the genesis of my transition from one who loved to write into one who is a writer.
3. Do you have any tips or suggestions for up-and-coming writers?
Absolutely. Just start! There is a proverb that, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions. This is so true as it relates to up-and-coming writers. So many people want to write a book, intend to write a book, and promise themselves one day they will write a book. Unfortunately, that is as far as it ever gets – intentions. The time is never right. You will never have enough time. You will never have enough to say, in the beginning. You will never have the entire thing thought out. However, as the African proverb states, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step”. In writing, the first step is to just do it. Just start. Do not worry about how it will end. Just start. Do not worry about having it all sorted out in your mind. Just start. Do not try to finish before you start. Just start. I convinced myself I did not have enough time. I convinced myself I did not have enough to say. I convinced myself I was not enough of a subject matter expert. I convinced myself no one would find value in my experiences or expressions. So, I sat idle. But a close friend encouraged me to just start, so I did. Once I did, it was like turning on the spigot to my soul. The information flowed out of me. I am that close friend encouraging you to just start. Once you do, you will find it will flow and when it does, you will bless countless people. And you will likely never know you did. So, for the sake of all those strangers who will benefit from your expressions and experiences – Just start!
Author’s Note/Trigger Warning: I realized I hadn’t posted any of my creative work. I dug up this short story I wrote back in 2018, centered around the 9/11 terrorist attacks in NYC. The prompt called for short story centered around an atypical day at work. It surely is a day we will never forget. Rest In Peace to all the victims.
Good Morning Kafka,
I hope classes are going well. Are you sure you want to take a full course load this semester? I always advise my interns against it.
Anyhow, please complete following tasks today:
Order the office lunch at Vinny’s. They are usually busy this early, so I’d recommend going in person.
Please schedule social media for all of next week. Post content related to Fintech since we are hosting the Annual Technology ball next Friday.
Submit our survey to the Springville Most Talented Awards. It would look great if we were to win again this year.
Please draft a press release and a blog post to go out on Monday.
It’s your turn to plan an exciting event for office! J Let me know what ideas you come up with.
Find some potential background photos for our upcoming company holiday party.
Let me know if you need my assistance.
CEO, Caesura Capital Investments
P.S. The Finance department is looking forward to your presentation today!
Kafka buried his face in his hands. He’d forgotten about the damn presentation. The thought of trying to fulfill these tasks on two hours of sleep plagued him as he read Neil’s email for the third time. Kafka looked up at his reflection in the glass computer screen; his brown eyes were virtually sunken in, his brown skin looking rather dry, and he hadn’t been able to afford a decent haircut in about a month. He knows Professor Jones didn’t give a shit about him, having to be at work by 7 am the next morning when homeboy assigned that random ass critical analysis. Nor did Professor Craft when he decided to give the class an Excel file and told us to clean the data. Or Professor Kim. Or Dr. Umami. No, no. But Kafka couldn’t blame them. After all, they were just doing their jobs. He had nothing to blame it on but his tumultuous love affair with procrastination. And boy did he like it rough.
“Kafka, did you need some coffee…or a nap, perhaps?” asked Val, as she walked by his desk.
Kafka quickly straightened up. “Oh no, Val. I was just thinking about what I wanted post on social media for the upcoming tech event.”
Val nodded. “That’s good to hear. You know Neil puts a lot on you a lot because he cares about you.”
And when did Neil become an expert on caring for interns? His ass is always “working remote” on a yacht off the coast of a random tropical island. Or in the case of this week, islands. The Keys of Florida or something like that. Caesura Capital Investments was founded by Neil’s grandfather, Caesura Herring, then passed down to Neil’s father, Monroe “Ro” Herring, then of course to Neil. Folks around the office call Neil, “Red Herring”, because he never pays attention to the task at hand. He thinks it’s because everyone knows his favorite character is Red Foreman from That 70’s Show, but they’d rather not inform him of the truth. Val Herring is Neil’s younger sister and, you guessed it, CFO of Caesura Capital Investments.
Kafka half-smiled. “Thanks, Val.”
Val winked as she walked away- the click clacking of her stilettos a cacophony in the ever quiet office. Kafka looked around his undecorated cubicle. The iridescent lights inside the office reflected off of a shiny silver name plate embossed KAFKA ABDUSEMED, Intern.
He couldn’t explain it, but something about the way the letters of his name dug into the silver metal stirred excitement in his belly. He looked at Neil’s email and dragged it to his secondary monitor and pulled up search engine on his primary one.
He typed “How to start your own company” in the search bar. And within a millisecond his possibilities were endless.
“Plotting your escape?” said Dre, as he entered Kafka’s cube. Dre, formerly known as Aleksander Glasgow, reminded Kafka of a birch tree – tall, lanky, White, and always smelled nice. After some time working with the company’s satellite office out in Chicago, Aleksander had a cultural awakening, if you will. After feeling so accepted by the community there, he returned to New York insisting everyone call him “Dre”, the nickname bestowed upon him by the illustrious Black delegation of the Southside. He also met his fiancé, Brie, while there. And before you ask, yes. Yes, she is. Kafka disregarded most of his co-workers, but Dre made this place more bearable. He was like the older brother Kafka never had.
“Something like that.” Kafka laughed, leaning back in his chair.
“Hey, so I was thinking I should get a tattoo on my arm?” Dre said smiling.
“Of what?” Kafka asked.
“Maybe ‘Chi-Town’ or ‘Windy City love’?”
“Dre, you’re from suburbs of Syracuse.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t fulfill me, bro. You understand?”
Kafka shook his head. “Yeah, I feel you, bro.”
“Man, whatever. You can’t say anything to me with a name like ‘Kafka’. Why did your parents want you to become a German-speaking Bohemian Jewish novelist?”
“My Dad isn’t known for his intellect, you know? Just does shit without thinking of the consequences.” Kafka laughed, only half joking.
“Yeah, I bet. Well speaking of fulfillment and interesting white men, I have a meeting with some investment bankers on the 103rd floor and they took a liking to you last time. You wanna go?”
“Ah, I’d love to man, but Herring’s gave me a laundry list to do. Can’t go way up there right now. Matter fact, I have to go to Vinny’s to order lunch.”
Kafka grabbed his jacket and walked with Dre to the elevators. As they walked, Kafka found himself staring out the windows. He used to be afraid of heights, but after some time working at Caesura, located on the 40th floor, his fear subsided. New York was busy as usual. Her hustle and bustle is why Kafka fell in love with her in the first place. The sun’s rays shot through the windows and gently kissed Kafka’s brown skin and illuminated Dre’s.
Dre sucked his teeth. “When’s Red Herring’s goof ass coming back anyway?”
“Who knows?” Kafka laughed. “How’s Brie?”
“Brie’s wonderful as usual. We went to Harlem last weekend to get her hair done by the Dominicans, and now they call us café con leche. ”
“Yeah, I bet. See you in a few man!” Kafka smiled as he watched Dre step into the elevator going up. Dre smiled and waved.
Kafka had never seen so much smoke. It was so thick. So black. It was moving so slow, it looked like it’d stained the sky. He was standing off in the distance, outside of Vinny’s, and his neck stiffened as he stared this cloud that erupted from the side of the tower in the middle of NYC. Among the screams, gasps, and the “What the hell was that?”s, Kafka found himself thinking about Dre. Did he make it out? Kafka began counting the floors, hoping the impact hadn’t affected 103. 2. Did you see that? 14. Was that a plane? Did a plane hit the tower? 16. 35. 61. 84. Oh my God, all those people? 126.96.36.199…102.103. Dre, where was Dre? Where was Val? Where was the lady that smiled at Kafka every morning when she emptied his trash? Where was Dean, the accounts manager, who just became a father for the first time? 108. Where was the man in the plaid coat he’d seen walking in this morning? 109.110. Kafka found himself out of floors. He’d reached the top of the building and it had all been engulfed by the thick black smoke. Was that a fucking plane? Someone yelled. Oh my God, a plane! A plane hit the tower! A man screamed. Kafka looked down at his hands. He’d never seen them shaking so violently. The lunch order for the office had fallen from them onto the sidewalk some time ago. Val’s quinoa salad busted all over the ground, while Dean’s bean burger was no longer the sum of its parts. The artificial cloud had blocked the Sun. Fire engines roared, and the police sirens bellowed through the streets of NYC, but they were unmatched to the screams of the people they passed.
Speaking of fulfill, I have a meeting with some investment bankers on the 103rd floor and they took a liking to you last time. You wanna go?” You wanna go? Yeah, Kafka wanted to go. But where? Part of him wanted to run into the burning tower and find his friend. Part of him wanted to get out of NYC as fast as he could. Where was Dre?